


Achilles, Achilles, Achilles Come Down

by devilishdiadem



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Achilles - Freeform, Achilles and Patroclus - Freeform, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Detention, Gen, Gryffindor Common Room, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley Friendship, IWSC | The International Wizarding Schools Championship Writing Challenge, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Ron being the best friend, The Golden Trio, The Golden Trio Era (Harry Potter), Umbitch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29530827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilishdiadem/pseuds/devilishdiadem
Summary: After enduring yet another detention with Umbridge, Ron returns to the Gryffindor Common Room for some much needed time and laughter with his best friends.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Ron Weasley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14
Collections: Stories Written For The IWSC (International Wizarding School Competition)





	Achilles, Achilles, Achilles Come Down

**Author's Note:**

> Ummm… so I — I barely even know what to do with this…. This is honestly just kind of completely crack. It’s got Greek Mythology, crackheaded teens (totally NOT using my own crackheaded time with my friends as inspiration here), fudge brownies, Ron’s foul language, and everything else that I needed while writing this on a Valentine’s Day sugar high because my mom made cheesecake and I’m gonna watch movies tonight with my friends!!!!!!
> 
> SKSKSKSKSK THIS STORY IS DEDICATED TO MY AMAZING FRIENDS LYS AND LYN I LOVE YOU BOTH SO MUCH!!!  
> istg we’re the most crackheaded people on the planet sometimes and I love it

_Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, come down,_

_won’t you get up off,_

_get up off the roof…_

Ron glanced back at Harry and Hermione as he walked through the Portrait Hole. They sat cross-legged on the floor by the fire, History of Magic essays in front of them, reluctance in their eyes as they watched Ron leave. All three of them wished that they could have gone to detention together. They knew it would have been easier for them that way. But when Ron had summoned his voice to ask the question during a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, Umbridge had replied that that would _“not do, Mr. Weasley”_ in her high-pitched little voice, then shot all three of them a dimpled smile.

Ron had had to fight hard not to hex her right there and then, for he knew that would have only earned him more detentions. Time to work on homework and Quidditch would have been lost, and he’d have been put through more pain and troubles. So, he’d bitten his tongue and dug his nails into the palm of his hand so hard they almost bled. Once they exited class, he’d thrown his book bag across the hall, the distant _thud_ echoing off the walls alongside many swear words that Hermione did _not_ like.

That had happened almost a month ago. More than half his evenings since had included time with _her_ , and Merlin knows how many before that. Tonight was already his third detention with Umbridge this week.

Ron had memorized the route to the miserable hag’s office. He’d always try to think of something while he walked, something other than what was coming, but it never worked. He thought of Quidditch, food, homework, Greek myths, but his mind would always find its way back to the imminent pain, making it so that his heart would already be racing and his hands shaking by the time he reached the door.

Ron tried to imagine the soothing bowl of murtlap essence waiting for him back in the common room as he raised his hand to knock.

“Come in,” Umbridge said lightly, as though he was there to have tea with her. Ron couldn’t help but wonder if Umbridge was maybe some evil entity or spirit from Tartarus incarnate.

Ron closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and he pushed the door open. He’d become used to the uncanny amount of pink in the room, but it still made him blink furiously every time he entered. It was as though a bunch of Fred’s and George’s Skiving Snackboxes had been mixed together, turned into paint bombs, and exploded. It made him want to vomit. Not as much as the woman sitting behind the desk did though. She barely looked up at him as he entered, only gesturing with a pudgy finger at the chair on the side of the desk, in front of which lay a sheet of blank, white parchment and the black quill, point primed and sharpened.

Ron forced his feet to move, and he took a seat, picking up the quill. His hand wanted to tremble but he tightly squeezed his fingers to quell it. He would _not_ be giving Umbridge _any_ satisfaction. Not today, not tomorrow, not _ever,_ if he could help it.

The words, _“I must not lie or fraternize with liars,”_ started to sear into his skin once more as he began to write the first line. He bit his lip, the scarred hand clenching his robes tightly as droplets of blood started to blossom.

Ron tried to keep his writing hand as steady as possible, every word, every letter, written with deliberate precision. The only problem was that that slowed down the process. Yet, he forced himself to stay steady, for one messed-up word, one incorrect letter, and it would hurt like hell. The different lines and patterns that his skin wasn’t accustomed to would burn like acid. Ron wondered, not for the first time, if this was some torture method Hades himself had devised.

The long sheets of parchment Umbridge would give him usually allowed about forty-five lines before it was filled. That is, if she didn’t make him do the back too, which she sometimes did if she didn’t believe the message had “sunk in.”

_“Forty-two to go,”_ Ron thought to himself. It took about thirty-seven seconds to write each line, Ron had discovered, meaning that one side of the parchment took nearly half an hour, barring he didn’t mess up a line which would force him to start over. Add the other side in, and a session could last longer than an hour. But because of the constant pain and the urge to hex Umbridge’s smug smile right off her face, it felt more like four hours, rather than one.

_“Thirty-seven… thirty-three… twenty-nine… twenty-five… twenty-one…”_ Ron counseled himself. The hand clenching his robes was bright pink and swollen. It felt heavy, as though the flesh had been injected with Polyjuice Potion.

Ron winced as a hiss slipped through his gritted teeth. The quill had scraped across the parchment as he’d shifted his grip, a new line of ink appearing unbidden. That line tore through his raw skin just the same, out of pattern, sending a sharp wave of pain through the nerves in his arm.

He felt Umbridge’s beady eyes resting on him for a moment before she looked back down at the essays in front of her.

Ron set his teeth again, replaced his grip on the quill, and continued.

* * *

She made him do the back of the parchment. She’d tutted, wiping the blood off the back of his hand with a rough handkerchief before flipping over the parchment.

_“Finish this side. Then you may go, Mr. Weasley.”_

Ron hadn’t said a word in reply. He’d stared daggers at her once she’d looked down again, but that was the most he allowed himself. During the next hour, Ron managed to sustain himself by imagining Umbridge trapped inside a Brazen Bull. It seemed to work well enough, for he had had to stop himself from smiling once or twice at the picture his mind had concocted of her being cooked alive and coming out crisp and juicy like a turkey.

Once he’d finished the back, Umbridge looked over his hand once more, then shooed him away as though he were a fly buzzing around her head.

Ron hastened back to the Common Room, through the halls, up and down the staircases, all the while cradling his hand, cursing Umbridge, and begging the agonizing waves of pain to stop.

Harry and Hermione were still sitting by the fire when he returned, neither of them talking. Nearly everyone else had gone to bed. Only a few stragglers remained, tucked up in the corners of the room or yawning as they tried to finish assignments.

Harry stared into the fire, still sitting in the same position, an elbow propped up on a knee and his chin in his hand. Hermione leaned against the side of an armchair, a book in her lap, but she didn’t seem to be very focused.

“How’d it go?” she asked, having noticed Ron first. She stood and grabbed the bowl of murtlap essence from a nearby table, bringing it over to the fire. Ron shrugged as he walked over and sat down between them.

“The usual,” he said, shooting a grateful smile towards Hermione as he rested his hand in the bowl. “I did come up with a good distraction though.” Ron smirked as he proceeded to tell Harry and Hermione about the Brazen Bull image.

By the time he was finished, they were all rolling on the floor with manic laughter. When looking back on this the next day, they probably wouldn’t find it near as funny, but that’s what happened when mixing three teens with major sleep-deprivation, a pile of fudge brownies from the kitchens, and stories of Ancient Greek torture methods into a bowl laced with depression.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Harry said, holding his hands up and trying to catch his breath. “I just thought of something.”

“What?” Ron asked through a mouth full of brownies.

“Umbridge… she’s a bitch, right?” Harry said. His bright green eyes were sparkling with laughter, a welcome sight compared to the near-constant pain they usually reflected.

“Yeah,” Hermione replied. Her hair was messy, strands criss-crossing over her face.

“I now dub ‘Professor Dolores Jane Umbridge’ the new and improved, ‘Professor Dolores Jane Umbitch,’” Harry announced with a flourish of his hands.

Hermione screeched with laughter as Ron fell backwards, upending the bowl of murtlap essence over the burgundy rug.

Hermione cleaned it up with a wave of her wand, but not before having to try a few times because she was hiccuping with laughter and couldn’t say the spell properly.

The trio calmed down after a few minutes, taking deep breaths and a few sips of the butterbeer they had leftover from their last Hogsmeade trip. Ron glanced around. It seemed that, in their hysteria, the trio hadn’t noticed that they were the only ones left in the Common Room.

Hermione sighed, using her hands to push her hair back from her face before stifling a huge yawn.

“Well, boys,” she said, pushing herself to her feet. “Love you both, but I gotta get to bed.”

“Night, Herms!” “Night, Hermione!” Harry and Ron called in unison as she made her way towards the stairs.

“Night, boys!” she called back.

Only Harry and Ron remained. Harry sighed, dragging the near-empty plate of brownies over as he leaned back against the sofa. Ron, careful not to spill the bowl again, moved next to him so that they were leaning shoulder-to-shoulder.

“How was it, really?” Harry asked after a few seconds.

Ron looked over. “What do you mean?” he asked innocently. He knew very well what Harry was talking about.

Harry raised his eyebrows.

Ron rolled his eyes. Harry really _could_ read him like a book, couldn’t he? Especially after last year, it seemed like their whole stupid fight over the Tournament had brought them even closer together in the end. Ron had no clue how that had happened, but hey, if anything had come out of him being a complete arse, he was glad it was for the better and not the worse.

“Hey.” Harry nudged him in the side.

“What? Sorry.” Ron blinked. Getting lost in memories never did suit him well.

“How was it?” Harry asked again. “She made you do both sides, didn’t she?”

Ron sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Said it hadn’t ‘sunk in’ enough again.” He rolled his eyes. “God, I hate that bitch.”

“ _Um_ bitch,” Harry corrected with another elbow to the side.

Ron closed his eyes and shook his head. “Umbitch, yeah.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. “Guess the brownies and butterbeer gets to you eventually.”

Ron snorted. “Mate, you didn’t see yourself after winning the Quidditch Cup in third year. Completely passed-out drunk on my lap.”

“I did not,” Harry said, shaking his head fervently. “Not how I remember it.”

“Mate, you drank like twelve butterbeers at thirteen years old!” Ron snickered. “You were wasted! I’m surprised you even woke up when Sirius tried to get Peter that night.”

Harry sobered at the mention of his godfather and the man he had been framed for killing.

“I — I’m sorry, mate, I wasn’t thinking,” Ron apologized quickly. “I… sorry.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re good. It’s alright.”

Ron knew it really wasn’t, but Harry was stuffing another brownie in his mouth, so Ron pushed it to the back of his mind.

“It was one of the worse ones,” he said. He pulled his hand out of the murtlap essence and showed Harry. “I messed up a couple times, so that didn’t feel great.”

“Ouch, yeah,” Harry said. “Never does,” he added empathetically. “Sorry,” he said after a minute.

Ron rolled his eyes. “For what? Harry, we’ve told you a million times, okay? Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault we’re dealing with Umbitch.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Harry said. He sat up straighter so he could better look at Ron, who was leaning his head back against the cushions.

“You guys wouldn’t be dealing with all this if not for me,” Harry continued. “I’m the one who needs to learn to control their mouth and not spout off at her every two minutes.”

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry’s self-deprecation.

“It’s wrong of me to put you guys through this, and—“

“Oh my god, Harry, would you shut up?” Ron interrupted. “It’s our decisions that have gotten us detention with her. It’s not your fault, okay? It’s our choice to stand by you and stand up for what’s right.”

Harry pressed his lips together. “Yeah, sure.”

Ron couldn’t help but roll his eyes again. Harry really needed help in realizing that not everything was his fault. Ron wasn’t sure how to go about giving him that help though. Maybe he could ask Hermione to find some potion that would help alleviate guilt or something.

Ron couldn’t help remembering just last year when he’d taught Harry how to shave. It had been a few weeks before the third task, and Harry had been so stressed, so utterly exhausted and anxious every moment of every day, but even when he had asked Ron to teach him, he’d still done so with such reluctance, even embarrassment. As though it was his fault that his uncle was a bastard and hadn’t taught him.

Ron hadn’t minded at all; maybe it was because he had five brothers, and that was the environment he’d grown up in: brother teaching brother. But whatever it was, Ron had ignored it and didn’t comment, knowing that that would have probably just made Harry even more uncomfortable. He had proceeded to show Harry what directions to pull the razor so that he wouldn’t nick the skin, how much cream to use, and how often to replicate a new razor.

Harry had listened to it all, not saying much but nodding with understanding. When Ron had finished, Harry had shot him a grateful smile, opening his mouth to say thanks, but Ron shook his head.

_“No thanks needed,”_ he’d said.

* * *

“Hey, wake up, mate.”

Ron opened his eyes with a start.

Harry was elbowing him in the side again. “Heh, you fell asleep on me.”

“Oh… right, sorry.”

Harry chuckled. “You’re fine.” He glanced down at his watch. “It _is_ almost four though. And… we have Divination in the morning.”

Ron mimed gagging as Harry stood up and held out an arm to pull Ron to his feet. Ron grabbed Harry’s hand without thinking, Harry heaved, and instantly, a wave of pain rippled through Ron’s arm as Harry’s fingers pressed into the scars.

Ron gasped and let go of Harry’s hand quickly, losing his balance and falling backwards onto the cushions.

“Dammit, I’m sorry, Ron,” Harry gasped, hurrying to sit down next to Ron. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking when I reached for that hand.”

Ron shook his head as he bit his lip. “Not your fault,” he muttered. “I wasn’t thinking either.”

“Yeah, but still, I —“

“Harry.”

“Right, sorry.”

Ron shook his head with a smile before pushing himself up with his good hand. “Let’s just get to bed, shall we?”

Harry hesitated, but then smiled. “Yeah, alright.”

Ron threw his shoulder over Harry’s. “What do you say we skip Divination tomorrow?”

“You forget, we don’t have Hermione in that class to take notes for us,” Harry laughed.

“So?”

Harry hesitated. “Eh, point taken.”

Ron and Harry snuck into the dormitory a few minutes after brushing their teeth and trying to keep Harry from falling into the shower twice.

The whole night turned into a blur after that. Ron was pretty sure he and Harry had ended up crashing on one bed, but he wasn’t sure who’s it was. They skipped Divination the next morning, instead choosing to sleep in and then prank Filch by sending him a fake love letter from Madam Pince.

Hermione chewed them out for it at lunch, but even she couldn’t deny how happy Harry and Ron had seemed.

“We’re fifteen,” Ron told her. “We get tortured every night by Umbridge, —Umbitch, sorry— so why can’t we skip Divination every now and then?”

Professor McGonagall shot them a stern look a few minutes later from the teacher’s table, but Ron was pretty sure she had rolled her eyes good-naturedly once she thought he’d looked away.

Ron had always related himself and Harry to Achilles and Patroclus, Harry being Achilles, of course. But, when he’d told Harry the story, Harry had been very firm in his decision that Ron was definitely the Achilles in their relationship. Best friends, taking revenge when one got hurt, leading when the other couldn’t. Neither of them had stabbed anyone in the throat yet though.

Ron and Harry, Achilles and Patroclus, best friends until the end, living in a war-zone, but managing to find bits and pieces of happiness through the pain.


End file.
